


We are Young

by Sinderella (MsrMoonlight)



Series: Can't Say No [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blowjobs, Colonial America, Inexperienced England, M/M, PWP, Smut, dub-con, they have no idea what they're doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 20:03:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2824448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsrMoonlight/pseuds/Sinderella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When America was only half a century old, sleeping on England's lap was suffocatingly adorable. Now, England isn't sure if it's a blessing or a curse, or a terrifying mix of both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We are Young

**Author's Note:**

> Gratuitous smut with colonial America, who is about 100 years old but looks 11 or 12, and empire England, who is as old as time while still possessing the strapping youthful appearance of a 16-year-old and the sexual experience of a baby. I like the idea of England being a completely flummoxed by anything to do with sex, such that each of his first steps are taken with America according to America's, uh, biological schedule, so, um, here it is.
> 
> NOTE: England does NOT come onto America, but he does get so flustered by him that he can't think straight. I'm not sure if this counts as dub-con or non-con, since even thought England is older, America is the one that initiates the act, and England is just hopelessly confused.
> 
> First in a series of smut fics chronicling their journey of discovery as colonial America grows and England remains as sexually reticent as a two-thousand-year-old nation can be.
> 
> I'm not even sure why I wrote this, but this 'plot' bunny came and wouldn't go away. I apologise for everything. >///<

The first time it happens, America is only tall enough to nuzzle the bottom of England’s shoulder blades with his nose if he stands on his toes. It has been a century since the boy was first discovered by Iceland and subsequently brought into England’s care, and he has grown far more rapidly than any other nation has ever been known to.

America is asleep in England’s lap as the empire’s quill quietly scratches across poorly bleached parchment, rewriting as much legislation as he endorses. His work table is situated in front of an expansive window that opens to a garden overflowing with roses and fruit trees. In the summer, which is now gracing the Americas with its radiant glow, warm breezes carry the heady scent of blossoming flowers and ripening fruits into his office. It is particularly soothing to the young colony, who frequently accompanies England while he works and allows himself to be serenaded to sleep by the aromas drifting in from the garden. Sometimes he slumps on the chaise lounge to the side, and sometimes, like today, he climbs into onto England’s chair and becomes a dead weight within minutes.

It didn’t use to be a problem when America was much smaller, but as he is now for all purposes a boy just shy of puberty to anyone who looks, his sleeping body more often than not renders England’s legs numb sooner rather than later. England wraps an arm securely around the colony to hold him steady while his head lolls to the side, and shifts himself slightly to increase blood flow to his lower body. As he moves, America’s buttocks brush with teasing pressure over his crotch, which sends a sudden rush of heat to both his groin and face.

This is the second problem posed by America’s favoured sleeping position. When the boy was younger he fit easily on one leg, which left ample dearth between the sleeping child and the region between his thighs. In addition, England’s own body had yet to reach its sexual awakening back then. Things are much different now when even the lightest touch has him at half-mast. It is a most inconvenient development, England admits, as walking is now slightly uncomfortable, but he will not give up the closeness he shares with America because of a biological dysfunction. It cannot possibly be normal to be so sensitive down _there_ all the time, no matter the rubbish that spews forth from France’s surely wanton mouth.

England is about to return to his writing, prepared to steadfastly ignore the strain in his breeches, when America starts to wake. The worst thing about America dozing in his lap is the squirming as the boy transitions from dreams to reality. He just cannot stop moving. England tenses rapidly a as every little wriggle of his posterior rubs against England’s sensitive organ just enough for it to grow a little harder with each passing second. The boy himself is yawning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, legs stretching and relaxing sporadically.

When the building pressure of his fitted breeches becomes far too much to bear—is it him or does America’s waking ritual consist of an increasing number of unnecessary fidgeting and writhing against England’s body with every passing year?—England gives a strangled gasp, “A-America. Stop—ah! Stop moving!”

The colony stills immediately. He quickly turns to look at England, bright blue eyes large and alarmed, “Did I hurt you?”

England is about to tell him that nothing is wrong and would America please get off him, when the boy twists in his lap to angle his hips squarely toward England and unwittingly ends up skimming his growing bulge while he moves to straddle him. The empire bites his lips so hard to stop a ready cascade of swears from simply pouring out from his mouth in the close company—ha, close indeed, England thought breathlessly—of a young, impressionable nation that his teeth breaks skin.

“England?” America says again, this time distinctly worried. He reaches up to hold England’s face, tilting it left and right, leaning in as he inspects the older nation and in the process tilts his pelvis forward so that the pressure on England’s crotch increases astronomically.  “You’re looking very flushed. Are you sick?”

England moans, lightheaded, and America simply presses closer to him. The boy is now nose to nose with the empire and searching frantically for a reason that might explain why his guardian is suddenly turning a distressingly dark shade of red. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

England’s eyes struggle to stay open, his lids fluttering spasmodically as America continues to apply even greater presser to his groin in an attempt to diagnose him. He opens his mouth, intending to instruct him off his lap, but all that comes out is a hitched gasp. The sensation is overwhelming. Perhaps, as France likes to point out, England is simply wholly inexperienced in this domain, never having had a partner before. While he has never regretting acquainting his fist with Francis’ face in response to the taunt (multiple times, at that), England is beginning to suspect that this particular sticky situation will have taken a rather different turn if he has even once taken himself in hand instead of allowing his body’s frustration to build as it so evidently has.

“England! Tell me what’s wrong!” America demands, voice high and afraid. England imagines that seeing one’s guardian practically having a fit over an unknown malady must be terrifying, so he tries his best to gesture downward toward his crotch, praying that America will not ask too many questions and just get of his lap immediately.

The boy sits back closer to England’s knee, which relieves England immensely. “America—,” England starts, but is quickly interrupted by America’s exclamation over the not insignificant tent in his breeches.

America bends down embarrassingly closely to England’s groin, eyeing the rise in fabric with interest. “Say, England, what’s this?”

Blood rushes back into England’s face. “Well—,” he tries again, and is quickly spoken over.

“That doesn’t look right, England,” America says, then promptly presses his palm flat over England’s erection and stars explode behind the empire’s eyes somewhere between his ears and rattle inside his skull. The dazing display of light does not fade as America continues to grope around, fingers ghosting over England’s rock-hard member, which forces him to press sharply into the backrest of his chair in order to not jerk his hips and roughly displace America from his perch on his legs. His hands grip his armrests so tightly he fears he might find indents when the ordeal is over.

His breaths come out in little staccato bursts of gasps, each sending his chest heaving heavily. As he tries to regain his mind from where it has exploded out of his skull and spilt all over the carpeted floor of his office, America’s deft hands trace the contours of his swollen organ. He has never, in his entire life, been so aroused, and he is thoroughly mortified that this has happened in the presence of America.

“What is it?” America asks innocently, still fondling his guardian nation. England curls his fist strongly enough to etch tiny crescents into his skin.

“It’s—ah!—it’s a m-matter of bi—oh, lord!—biology, A-America,” England manages. He is proud of his ability to form complete and coherent sentences for a second until America, the ever-curious and ever-persistent child that he is, gives England’s still engorged member an experimental squeeze.

“It doesn’t seem comfortable,” America declares, frowning. England is too slow in his recovery to tell America to leave and is pre-emptively silenced by America _undoing his breeches and reaching a hand inside_. England’s eyes roll for a moment to the back of his head before he comes back to himself and focuses on America dragging his penis, heavy with blood, out of his breeches. It is the first time he’s seeing it so full and actually leaking with milky white fluid slowly oozing from the slit, and he is momentarily arrested by the sight.

America runs a finger along a prominent vein on the underside of his oversensitive member, prompting a bout of uncontrollable spasms. He then takes it in both hands and thumbs the bulb at the end lightly, squinting as pre-cum smears across the swollen head. England’s face is now as furiously red as his engorged penis.

“I don’t think this is normal, England,” America says, and then, without any notice, prises one of England’s hands off the armrest and cups it around his undeveloped sex organs. “See? Mine’s all soft.”

“A-America, I don’t—oh!—think that this is t-the time for—ah!—com-comparisons,” England pants weakly, trying and failing to withdraw his trembling hand from America’s crotch. He feels heavy all over and any movement he makes is slow and sluggish as if underwater. America’s ridiculous strength easily resists any of England’s struggles.

“England,” America scolds him sternly, “this looks very serious.” He drags his fingers down to England’s testicles and grabs them. “Look, even these are swollen.”

England chokes when America first touches his sacks. Are even _those_ sensitive as well? And then America takes them in hand and England seizes up so rapidly he thinks he feels his muscles rip from where they connect to his bones, and his penis bounces upward at the sudden motion to slap his waistcoat wetly and brush past America’s lips on its way back down. “A-Ameri—ah!”

He feels so stimulated that he could cry. Pre-cum is dribbling steadily from the slit and is starting to pool where America’s hands rest at the base of his penis, nestled among a light bush of blond pubic hair. America eyes the liquid with keen interest, scooping it in his hands and spreading it over England’s weeping member, carefully pressing down on the slit at its head to see if he could stem the flow. It simply continues to leak through his fingers.

America shifts closer until England starts to feel his colony’s warm breath on his pulsing member. He feels as boneless as a squid, shuddering at every light exhalation over his penis, and helpless to prevent the boy from having his unknowingly wicked way with him. He is also just noticing that America is now sitting on his hand, having forgotten that he’d previously essentially manhandled England into copping a feel of him when he leant forward to have a better look at England’s penis.

All England wants to do is curl up in bed and pretend that this is all a dream, when something warm and moist suddenly flicks at the head of his penis and he jerks so hard that he almost gives himself a concussion on the back of his chair. The jerking, fortunately, dislodges his hand from under America’s own private parts. Unfortunately for him, it also serves to thrust his member into America’s open mouth, which, owing to a combination of hot wetness and well-maintained teeth, causes him both unspeakable pleasure and pain.

“A-America!” England practically screams.

America’s head shoots up quickly, leaving a sticky wet mess of saliva and pre-cum still warm from his mouth on England’s penis. He starts fussing with England’s face, swiping at his eyes as if England is crying. And maybe he is, from both an absolutely surreal pleasure shooting up his spine and a corresponding pain from knocking his head searing downward. “I’m sorry! Did I injure you?”

“N-no, no. I—I’m quite fine, A-America,” England huffs breathlessly.

“Then what is it? Was it painful?” America enquires, brows furrowed with concern, and England wishes the boy would just stop _kneading_ him down _there_.

“Not—ah!—not as such,” the empire stammers.

“It feels good, then?” America concludes hastily, and lo, before England could get another word in edgewise, the boy has lowered his mouth back onto England’s throbbing member and all rational thought flies out of his head. The only thoughts his mind seems adequately primed to entertain are the all-encompassing warmth surrounding his penis and the sensation of teeth lightly scraping against his swollen flesh. His foreskin catches several times against America’s teeth, at which point the boy deigns to stop mouthing at his guardian, which England thinks distantly is a wise move, pull the foreskin back along his length to reveal even more sensitive flesh underneath, which England thinks not-so distantly is a confusing but immensely arousing move, and sink the cavity of his mouth back over England’s penis again, which England very lucidly thinks is the most foolish thing the colony has ever done short of jumping into a lake without knowing how to swim.

England’s hips jerk upwards, pushing his penis deeper into America’s mouth. The boy gags on the intruding member, and England hopes that this is what gets him to stop. Alas, America is nothing if not tenacious. He grabs hold of England’s penis with one hand to stop it from moving (although, at this point, England thinks that he is so hard he could rival a metal rod in rigidity), presses another hand to his guardian’s hips, gets off the chair in one swift move, spreads England’s legs apart, kneels right between the empire’s knees, and proceeds to lick the tip of his penis like he’s never had anything tastier. England feels his heart stutter so painfully that he blacks out for a second or two.

As he comes to, England is faced with the sight of America’s tongue dragging slowly up from the base of his penis to the tip, where he swirls the tip of his tongue around a very red exposed bulb that once lay behind his foreskin. His eyes are two bright spots of blue staring intently at England’s face as if to judge his reactions, and, if possible, England’s cheeks glow even warmer. When America flattens his tongue over the slit of his member and twists his hands just so, England thrusts involuntarily into America’s mouth again. This time, the boy is quick to move away, but descends quickly upon England’s weeping penis as soon as the jerking stops.

His member is absolutely slathered in the boy’s saliva. England knows— _god, how he knows_ —that he is not supposed to find the vision of his colony between his thighs remotely erotic, but try as he might, looking down to see his penis disappearing behind the boy’s red lips and into his mouth, where a tongue scrapes along his length with a touch that burns like wildfire, only to appear again covered in a downright filthy mix of his own pre-cum and America’s saliva, is the single most arousing thing he’s ever borne witness to.

The boy even looks like he’s enjoying himself.

England gives up on any semblance of looking held together, gives in to the sob that bursts forth from his chest. “A-America, oh, god, America!”

America’s eyes, trained on England’s expressions, decide that his guardian is not in pain, and fall back down to commit himself fully to repeating whatever it was that caused such an explosive response. He does not disappoint himself when, just moments later, England gives another strangled cry of his name. America does not know why it elicits such a response, but he is pleased, nevertheless, that it has done so.

Heavy, wet pressure changes to a light flutter from base to tip as America starts to kiss up and down England’s penis. “Because you always kiss my hurts better,” he explains against England’s throbbing length. He learns, quickly, that England’s body reacts most positively to a constant back and forth of his thumb over the slit of his member, and has an almost equally intense reaction to a squeeze to his testicles, under which his breeches are caught. America quickly pulls the breeches down further when he notices that there is a line of flesh there that is a shade of angry red inconsistent with the heavy blush of the rest of his privates, and looks like it has recently been painfully abraded.

England has a moment of clarity to realise, mortified, that his colony is undressing him again before it is robbed from him by another series of peppered kisses to his member and firm stroke over its tip. He is starting to get used to the stimulation, and thinks that if this keeps up, in a couple of minutes, he will be coherent enough to gently but firmly tell America to leave the room, but America, with his usual brand of unpredictability, begins to suck on his penis like he’s milking it for its sticky, cloudy fluid, and England just loses it.

A shockwave runs through his body, causing him to thrust hard and erratically into America’s mouth. He is vaguely aware that America fails to move away before he spills his load explosively into the boy’s mouth, but is otherwise helpless to stop the spasms of his own traitorous body from gagging the boy. His throat constricts spastically around his words, but, “America!” makes it out of his mouth loudly and embarrassingly clearly. The boy’s eyes are shut, and England feels a rush of unwanted heat rise anew in his groin when he sees his cum dribbling from the boy’s mouth between his swollen lips and the penis they are closed around and gathering under his chin, only to trickle downward into America’s shirt through a sliver of space between his neck and the collar.

His hands remain on the armrests—a tiny relief—throughout the first orgasm of his long life, thankfully nowhere close enough to America’s head to force it down on his member during his release and risk well and truly choking his colony.

As he comes down from his high, his eyes lazily track America’s throat swallowing his semen, and watches guiltily as the boy tilts his head sideways to lick up the rest of it that has leaked down England’s now softening penis. It is almost enough to harden it again. Panicking, England tries to will his potential erection down by thinking of anything but the sight between his legs, trying to focus on something that isn’t his colony lapping up any traces of semen or excess saliva from his thankfully still flaccid penis and testicles.

America licks his fingers clean before pulling England’s foreskin back over the tip of his penis and tucking England back into his breeches, giving his guardian’s clothed penis one last satisfied pat (which England does not appreciate). He rises between the knees of the empire, extricating himself so that he now stands beside England, and smiles broadly.

“That’s taken care of now. Aren’t you proud of me?” America said brightly.

England takes one shaky look at his colony, and says, completely dazed, “Yes. Now, once I’ve found my legs we’ll go and make sure you’re all cleaned up before tea.” England gives the boy a once over and blushes heavily when he notices that there is still a thin stream of cum trailing from America’s chin to disappear under his collar.  You’ve got a spot of…fluid under your chin. Right…there,” he says, and wipes a bit of it off.

“Oh.” America goes cross-eyed in an attempt to spot the liquid, and England, deciding that that is too much excitement for one day, stands up despite how shaky his legs are and ushers the boy out of his office and into the nearest bathroom.

England stands outside as America undresses to shower. He knows they are the only two in the house at the moment, but when he speaks, it is soft. “A-America? You are not to tell anyone about today or repeat this with somebody else.”

The splashing of the tub stops. “Okay. But you absolutely must tell me when this happens again, all right? I don’t want you to be so vulnerable around other people. Promise me.”

England buries his face in his hands, and his cheeks burn a brilliant shade of scarlet that he is certain has crept up his ears like ivy. He wants to tell America ‘no’ so badly, but all that comes out is, “Okay, I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope the work speaks for itself, but I'd like to make something explicit: Through liberal use of various synonyms for the male organ (as opposed to alluding to it with phrases like "America drew him out of his breeches", where "him" is used deliberately vaguely to mean both England and his...you know), England is trying to distance himself from the act by convincing himself that he himself is not involved, only one of his organs is. Extensive usage of these words (especially the more clinical "penis"), probably made the whole fic sound really awkward, but that's kind of the point...? I mean, who wouldn't be awkward if your charge suddenly started mouthing you?


End file.
